The  Sensational  Racing  Career  of 

M  O  R  VI  C  H 

1922  KENTUCKY  DERBY  WINNER 

IAS  TOLD  BY  HIMSELF! 


AL.  JOHNSON,  UP  ON  MORVICH 

INSERT:    MR.  BENJAMIN  BLOCK. 


/:)  /<  y^ 


JOHNA.SEAVERNS 


^ 


Mr.  Benjamin  Block,  Owner  of  Morvich 


MORVICH 


An  Autobiography 
of  a  Horse 


BY  GERALD  B.  BREITIGAM 


Illustrated  with  Portraits 


Copyright,   1922 
Gerald  B.  Breitigam 


Printed   in  the  U.S.A. 


MORVICH 

THE  WONDER   HORSE 

OF  1921 -1922 


Unbeaten   as   a  Two- Year-Old,    Winning    11 
Straight    Stake    Races 

Winner  of  Kentucky  Derby  in  His  First  Start 
as   a   Three- Year-Old 


The  Greatest  Race  Horse  Story  Ever  Written 


Reprinted    by 

"BILL"  HEISLER,  Publisher 

By    Special   Permission    of  the    Author 


Table  of  Contents 

Page 

An  Appreciation , 5 

Dedication  6 

A  Tribute  to  a  Horse 8 

Morvich — the  Wonder  Horse 

Part   I— Coithood 14 

Part  II — Undefeated 25 

Part  III— Derby  Day 36 

Part   IV— Victory 47 


An   Appreciation 

The  Author  wishes  to  thank  Mr.  Benjamin 
Block,  owner  of  Morvich,  and  Mr.  Frederick 
Burlew,  his  trainer,  for  their  many  courtesies. 
His  thanks  also  are  extended  to  The  New  York 
Globe,  in  which  first  appeared  the  first  three 
parts  of  the  Story  of  Morvich,  not  only  for 
permission  to  republish  but  also  for  the  splendid 
manner  in  which  the  story  originally  was  pre- 
sented and  displayed.  To  R.  H.  McCaw, 
Walter  St.  Denis,  Dan  Lyons  and  O'Neill 
Sevier,  members  of  The  Globe's  staff,  thanks 
are  herewith  given  for  advice  and  suggestion 
in  the  preparation  of  the  material.  And  to  Mr. 
William  T.  Amis,  lover  of  horses,  the  Author 
extends  his  heartiest  thanks  for  the  Introduction. 


—5— 


Dedication 

To  my  wonderful  friend,  Mr.  Benjamin 
Block,  my  owner,  and  whom  it  is  my  increasing 
delight  to  serve,  whose  courtesies  to  me  in  my 
work  and  travel  are  without  number  and  un- 
stinted, always  introducing  me  to  the  politest 
society,  the  Senators,  Governors,  Merchant 
princes,  and  most  of  all  to  the  most  beautiful 
women  in  the  world,  whose  gracious  interest 
and  pride  in  me,  I  am  free  to  admit  have  nerved 
me  to  exert  myself  and  prove  my  worth;  to 
my  trainer,  Mr.  Frederick  Burlew,  whose 
ceaseless  vigilance  and  untiring  effort  to  keep 
me  in  the  fittest  condition,  and  in  it  all,  not 
forgetting  the  menu;  to  my  good  friend  Mr. 
Gerald  B.  Breitigam  who  so  patiently  and  with 
such  brilliant  success  took  down  the  copy  of  my 
autobiography  and  is  now  placing  it  in  perma- 
nent form  that  my  friends  after  me  shall  know 
my  life;  to  my  friends  across  the  street,  who  in 


MORVICH 

the  end  with  unfailing  courtesy,  like  true  sports- 
men to  the  manner  born,  have  struggled  fierce- 
ly with  me  on  the  track,  and  who,  I  may  say, 
are  worthy  of  any  foeman's  steel,  but  acknowl- 
edged my  triumphs;  to  that  vast  throng  that 
cover,  like  a  carpet  of  spring  flowers,  the  gal- 
leries and  the  ground,  and  whose  applause  is 
a  far  sweeter  fragrance  to  me;  to  the  great  sport 
of  the  American  Turf,  and  those  who  are  striv- 
ing to  maintain  it  on  the  highest  plane  of  the 
true  ethics  of  sport,  and  to  which  standards  I 
commend  that  it  shall  hereafter  and  forever  be 
maintained,  so  that  all  of  us  good  racehorses 
may  appear  in  honor  before  our  masters  and 
our  friends;  to  my  friend  Mr.  Willam  T.  Amis, 
who,  after  taking  down  these  words,  gave  me 
a  big  piece  of  chocolate,  patted  me  gently  on 
the  cheek  and  said,  "MORVICH,  you  are  a 
great  horse  and  a  fine  fellow,"  I  herewith 
dedicate  this  book. 


A  Tribute  to  the  Horse 

"The  glory  of  his  nostrils  is  terrible." 

The  horse  from  time  immemorial  has  played 
an  important  part  in  the  civilization  of  the 
world. 

He  stands  out  pre-eminently  the  king  of  all 
beasts.  We  feel  a  twinge  of  regret  to  call  him 
a  beast.  The  proudest  moments  of  man  are 
when  he  is  astride  his  favorite  steed.  The  glory 
of  the  great  generals  whose  armies  have  shaken 
continents  would  soon  fade  and  perish  in  the 
imagination  and  romantic  pride  of  the  world 
were  it  not  for  the  magnificent  poise  and  grace 
of  the  imperishable  equine  reared  aloft  on  the 
pedestal  of  fame,  his  proud  mane  eclipsed  only 
by  the  golden  braid  of  his  master,  each  typical 
of  their  respective  majesties. 

We  never  cease  to  love  his  handsome  form, 
to  look  upon  his  confident  stride  and  to  wonder 
at  his  strong  and  graceful  step. 

—8— 


AL.  JOHNSON,  UP  ON  MORVICH 
INSERT:  MR.  BENJAMIN  BLOCK 


MORVICH 

Then,  too,  those  kind  and  friendly  eyes  which 
ever  bespeak  a  willing  service  and  a  gentle 
loyalty  to  his  master. 

He  is  recounted  among  the  marvelous  works 
of  the  Creator.  God  in  his  effort  to  tame  the 
proud  and  defiant  heart  of  disobedient  man, 
asks,  "Who  gave  to  the  horse  his  strength,  and 
who  clothed  his  neck  with  thunder?  He  paws 
in  the  valley  and  rejoiceth  in  his  strength. 

"He  mocks  at  fear  and  turns  not  back  from 
the  sword.  He  is  not  afraid  like  the  grass- 
hopper. He  does  not  give  heed  to  the  rattle 
of  the  quiver,  the  glitter  of  the  spear  and  the 
sword.  In  defeat  he  will  not  hear  the  sound 
of  the  trumpet. 

"He  smells  the  battle  afar  off — the  thunder 
of  the  captains  and  the  shouting." 

Is  it  any  surprise  that  an  heir  to  whole 
realms  should  exclaim:  "A  horse,  a  horse — my 
kingdom  for  a  horse!" 

In  this  age  of  motive  power  when  so  many 
of  the  heavy  burdens  of  the  faithful  horse  are 


MORVICH 

being  lifted,  there  should  be  a  concerted  effort 
on  the  part  of  man  to  exhalt  and  lift  up  on  a 
higher  plane  the  position  of  this  most  wonder- 
ful of  all  animals. 

Have  we  not  removed  from  our  shoulders 
the  weights  of  former  years  through  the 
marvelous  strides  of  science  and  invention? 
Have  we  not  in  our  comforts  kept  pace  with 
progress?  Why  should  we  hold  in  bondage 
longer  this  our  beautiful  friend — the  horse? 
Will  the  scorpion  lash  of  the  cruel  master  ever 
cease? 

The  horse  has  a  higher  and  richer  function 
and  heritage  by  the  side  of  man  in  the  process 
of  the  age. 

It  is  a  source  of  pride  to  look  upon  him 
when  he  is  well  kept,  sleek  and  natty.  See  him 
prance,  bite  his  bits  and  pitch  his  proud  head, 
and  with  distended  nostrils  give  vent  to  his 
feelings  of  freedom  and  strength! 

There  is  not  a  more  appreciative  animal  in 
the  world  than  the  horse.     He  will  respond  to 


-10— 


MORVICH 

every  kindness  and  gi\e  in  return  full  measure 
and  running  over. 

You  pat  him  on  the  shoulder,  smooth  his 
forehead  with  gentle  stroke  and  speak  kind 
words  to  him.     Two  proud  hearts  in  common! 

Then  too,  there  is  the  nobler  breed  with 
"all  the  line  of  his  fathers  known,"  the  steeds 
whose  pride  is  in  the  chase  and  in  the  thrill  of 
the  track. 

The  world  will  never  grow  so  old  as  to  for- 
get the  sensation  and  the  glory  of  the  fast  mov- 
ing steed,  in  the  heat  of  rivalry  as  he  "trots 
the  air"  and  causes  the  earth  to  sing  as  he 
touches  it  with  fleet,  limbed  and  beautiful  feet, 
racing  around  the  course,  bending  against  the 
rail  at  the  third  quarter,  mounting  as  on  wings, 
with  each  lengthened  tread,  pounding  the 
earth  as  if  it  were  the  soft  dalliance  of  the 
king's  chariot  way,  stretching  his  flaming  neck 
as  if  to  nose  his  challenged  right  to  the  goal 
and  the  gong,  coming  forth  in  the  last  lap  in 
the  froth  and  foam  and  fury  of  his  haste,  dash- 

—11— 


^     MORVICH 

ing  over  the  line  a  victor  in  the  midst  of  the 
wild  and  tumultuous  throng  rending  anew  the 
welkin  with  the  din  of  applause  and  strident 
but  muffled  music  of  the  band! 

He  comes  back  before  the  stand,  dancing 
and  prancing.  He  seems  to  bow  and  acknowl- 
edge with  grateful  pause  the  grand  display  of 
effulgent  praise.  His  energy  is  spent.  The 
victory  is  won.  The  fond  caress  of  his  master 
is  sweet. 

When  the  great  Creator  bestowed  on  man 
the  mastery  and  companionship  of  an  equine 
so  teachable,  sympathetic,  proud  and  so  glor- 
iously beautiful  and  graceful,  he  meant  that 
man  should  enjoy  the  infinite  delectation  of  an 
estate  richly  bequeathed  but  no  less  a  solemn 
responsibilty  assumed.  The  world  notes  with 
pride  that  great  keepers  and  trainers  of  these 
matchless  steeds  are  jealous  to  protect  the 
world's  greatest  sport  from  the  waste  and 
depredation  of  the  race  track  mongrel  of  former 
years   who   not   only   shamed    the   world   but 


-12- 


MORVICH 

humbled  the  horse. 

Under  the  administration  of  men  whose 
ethics  are  unblemished  and  whose  honesty  is 
unquestioned,  the  king  of  all  sports  will  assume 
its  place  for  the  season  under  auspices  of  good 
omen,  with  MORVICH  to  the  fore,  "whose 
pace  is  as  swift  as  light,"  and  whose  glory  is 
in  his  dark  eyes,  his  flowing  mane  and  tread 
of  his  noble  feet. 

—WILLIAM   T.    AMIS. 


-13- 


MORVICH 

MORVICH 

The  Wonder  Horse 

Part  I 
COLTHOOD 

Well  do  I  remember  the  day  when  I  was 
named.  Up  to  that  time  I  had  been  merely  a 
nameless  colt  running  in  pasture  beside  my 
mother,  Hymir.  It  was  a  day  of  shadows  and 
sunshine,  the  winter  rains  had  brought  the 
grass  of  the  pasture  to  a  lush  green,  the  ground 
was  spongy  beneath  my  feet,  the  blood  danc- 
ing in  my  veins. 

I  know  now  that  I  must  have  seemed  an 
awkward  sight  to  the  two  men  who  came  down 
into  the  wide  pasture.  But  up  to  that  time  the 
stableboys  and  other  humans  with  whom  I  had 
to  deal  had  not  paid  me  much  attention.  I 
was  not  aware  that  I  differed  radically  in  ap- 


-14— 


Left  to  Right:  Mr.  Frederick  Burlew,  Trainer 
OF  Morvich;  Mr.  Block 


MORVICH 

pearance  from  other  colts  running  by  day  in 
that  flat  country,  under  the  California  sun- 
shine, there  in  Napa  County,  with  now  and 
then  a  strange  salty  tang  from  San  Pablo  Bay, 
not  many  miles  distant,  borne  on  the  breeze. 

They  came  across  the  pasture,  halting  now 
and  then,  while  one  of  the  pair  would  point  a 
finger  toward  one  or  other  of  us  colts,  and  the 
other  would  assign  a  name.  I  edged  close  to 
them,  for  my  curiosity  was  aroused,  and  from 
what  they  said  I  understood  that  our  owner, 
Mr.  A.  B.  Spreckels,  had  negleaed  to  regsiter 
us  until  the  last  moment,  and  that  Bill  Carroll, 
our  trainer,  had  brought  him  to  the  pasture  for 
the  purpose  of  naming  us. 

"There's  a  beauty,"  said  Spreckels,  indicating 
a  brown  colt  running  by  the  side  of  Salvatrix. 

"Yes,"  said  the  trainer,  "sired  by  Runny- 
mede.    Same  as  that  colt  yonder." 

He  indicated  me.  Mr.  Spreckels  regarded 
me  quizzically. 

"Not  much  similarity,"  he  said  in  a  disap- 


-15- 


MORVICH 

pointed  tone."     "Look  at  that  fellow's  lumpy 
knees." 

"Yes,"  said  the  trainer,  shaking  his  head, 
"I'm  afraid  he's  the  cull  of  the  stable." 

"Well,  name  him  Morvich,"  said  Mr. 
Spreckels.  "I've  been  reading  a  Russian  novel 
in  which  the  hero,  a  twisted  sort  of  fellow, 
bears  that  name.  Perhaps  the  colt,  Morvich, 
may  come  out  from  behind  as  the  man  Morvich 
did." 

Old  Bill  Carroll  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 
"He'd  have  to  go  some,"  he  said. 

The  beautiful  colt  who  had  the  same  father 
as  I  was  named  Runstar.  That  was  my  first 
indication  that  I  was  regarded  disparagingly 
by  humans.  Later  I  was  to  have  many  far 
plainer  evidences  of  it.  As  for  Runstar,  who 
had  the  same  father  as  I,  he  became  the  pride 
of  Spreckels'  stables  while  I  with  my  lumpy 
knees  and  my  awkwardness,  was  looked  down 
upon  more  and  more.  Ah,  how  I  hated  him, 
how  I  yearned  to  out-do  him  in  some  fashion 

—16— 


MORVICH 

or  other! 

"Bide  your  time,"  advised  Mother  Hymir. 
"If  there  is  anything  in  those  funny  legs  of 
yours,  your  chance  to  beat  Runstar  in  the  only 
way  open  to  a  thoroughbred  will  come.  He's 
a  good-looking  colt,  but — beauty  is  as  beauty 
does." 

One  other  consolation  I  received  was  from 
Mose,  a  runty  little  Negro  stable  boy,  himself 
a  cull,  who  loved  me,  and  used  to  sneak  up  to 
me  sometimes  with  a  lump  of  sugar  or  an 
apple  core. 

"No thin'  in  a  name,  honey  boy,"  he  said 
one  day.     "Look  at  dat  Johren." 

Johren,  it  seems,  was  a  colt  in  Harry  Payne 
Whitney's  stables  at  one  time,  the  shaggiest, 
most  unkempt  colt  imaginable.  His  coat  would 
not  come  out  even,  nor  take  a  shine.  When 
it  came  time  to  name  him  for  the  thoroughbred 
register  Mr.  Whitney  recalled  an  occasion 
when  he  had  halted  at  a  roadhouse  for  water 
for  his  car.     It  was  a  ramshackle  place,  down- 

—17— 


MORVICH 

at-the-heels,  and  the  proprietor  appeared  in 
keeping  with  his  hostelry.  His  name  was 
Johren. 

"That  colt,"  said  Mr.  Whitney,  with  a  dis- 
gusted laugh,  "Ho!  He's  Johren." 

And  Johren,  Mose  added,  became  one  of 
the  best  three-year-olds  of  his  year. 

"Keep  yo'  head  up,  boy,"  said  Mose.  "Yo's 
got  a  strong  hea't  an'  a  even  disposishun.  'At's 
what  yo  needs.  Yo'  jes  wait.  Yo'll  beat  'em 
yit." 

It  was  pretty  hard  for  me  to  keep  up  my 
courage  during  the  next  year  and  a  half,  how- 
ever, I  can  tell  you.  I  was  foaled  at  some 
period  during  1919,  and  automatically  became 
a  year  old  the  following  New  Year's  Day. 
That's  the  way  it  is  with  us  horses.  The  first 
of  the  year  after  our  birth  makes  us  yearlings. 
It  was  the  time  I  was  waiting  for.  Because, 
on  becoming  a  yearling,  my  training  would 
begin.  And  deep  down  within  me  something 
kept  telling  me:   "Courage,  my  friend.     You 

—18— 


MORVICH 

have  it  in  you  to  win." 

Up  to  that  time  not  much  attention  had  been 
paid  us  colts.  And,  though  shghts  had  been 
put  upon  me  because  of  my  awkward  appear- 
ance, yet  there  had  been  no  great  distinaion 
made,  for  instance,  between  Runstar  and  my- 
self. Now,  however,  I  was  to  feel  the  iron 
enter  into  my  soul.  Ah,  you  laugh  at  that. 
But,  believe  me,  my  friends,  when  you  see  us 
horses  come  up  to  the  barrier  and  flash  away, 
and  circle  that  track,  you  see  something  more 
than  machines.  You  see  the  most  perfea  of 
living  mechanisms,  actuated  by  indomitable 
will.  I  have  seen  the  gamesters  leaning  over 
the  rail,  avarice,  greed,  despair  in  their  eyes  as 
we  flash  by,  and  if  they  have  souls,  why  not  we? 

Now  that  I  was  a  yearling  my  dark  hour 
really  began.  For  when  I  was  taken  out  with 
Runstar  and  the  other  yearlings,  and  the  trainer 
ran  his  hands  over  my  legs  and  chest,  my 
shoulders  and  neck,  he  snorted  with  disgust. 

"Well,  you  can't  expect  to  get  a  real  horse 


-19— 


MORVICH 

every  time.     Put  him  in  the  second  stable." 

And  into  the  second  stable  I  went,  while 
Runstar  went  into  the  first.  Is  there  anything 
more  disheartening  to  a  young  horse  .'^  Here, 
right  at  the  start  of  his  career,  he  is  placed  with 
the  cast-offs,  the  geldings,  the  selling  platers, 
the  horses  that  have  never  won  a  race  in  many 
starts  or  that  did  not  show  sufficient  fire  for 
stud. 

And  there  I  stayed  for  a  year,  receiving  scant 
consideration  to  that  lavished  upon  the  promis- 
ing yearlings  in  the  first  stable.  I  was  broken 
to  saddle.  It  did  not  take  long.  And  then 
various  exercise  boys  mounted  me  and  took 
me  out  on  the  great  track  for  trials.  That  track 
was  a  beauty,  as  finely  kept  as  any  racing 
association  track,  harrowed  continually,  cared 
for  like  milady's  complexion.  Such  tracks  are 
the  rule  at  all  the  great  racing  stables.  And 
around  it  the  boys  would  send  me  for  a  fur- 
long while  some  one  clocked  my  time. 

I  was  a  disappointment.     I  could  see  that. 


-20- 


MORVICH 

The  truth  is,  I  tried  so  hard  to  please  those 
boys,  to  win  their  love,  prancng  and  playing, 
that  I  just  could  not  settle  down  to  business. 
I  would  do  a  furlong  in  24,  and  that  is  no  time 
at  all.  If  a  young  horse  does  it  in  21,  then  the 
trainer  says:  "There  is  a  horse.  We  must  con- 
dition him."  But  if  he  does  it  in  24,  he  says: 
"Nothing  to  him.  We'll  sell  him  presently 
for  his  keep." 

Runstar  was  a  beautiful  chestnut  horse  by 
now.  I  could  see  him,  now  and  then  mettle- 
some, flashing  through  his  furlong  in  20.  Ah, 
how  I  yearned  to  beat  him.  And  when  I  would 
hear  the  trainer  or  the  stable  boys  talking  about 
Runstar  I  would  quiver  all  over  with  determi- 
nation.   I  would  beat  him  yet. 

At  last  came  the  spring  of  1921.  I  was  a 
two-year-old  now,  according  to  horse  age,  and 
eligible  to  race.  So  was  Runstar,  the  pride  of 
the  stables.  The  pair  of  us,  favorite  and  cull, 
were  put  in  the  box  cars  and  started  on  our  long 
journey  eastward,   over   the  deserts,  over  the 

—21— 


MORVICH 

mountains,  over  the  rich,  green  fields  of  the 
middle  country,  to  that  distant  eastern  land 
where  the  thoroughbred  was  king. 

Because  of  my  defective  knees  and  unim- 
pressive workouts,  my  masters  decided  to  enter 
me  in  the  Suffolk  Selling  Stakes  at  Jamaica  on 
the  opening  day.  May  6.  They  would  sell  me 
if  they  could.  The  betting  odds,  influenced  by 
reports  from  California  about  my  trials  were 
30  to  1  on  me,  and  before  the  race  began  they 
went  to  50  to  1.  Even  then,  not  even  for 
sentimental  reasons,  would  any  of  the  Spreckels 
stable  connections  place  a  bet  upon  me. 

Jockey  Metcalfe  was  up.  He  had  ridden  me 
once  or  twice  before.  I  knew  him  for  a  cool 
hand,  who  would  not  use  the  whip  unless 
compelled  to.  There  was  something  electrical 
in  the  situation.  What,  I  did  not  know.  It 
was  something  that  affected  me  alone.  I  said 
to  myself  I  would  win  that  race,  or  die  of  a 
broken  heart. 

Red  Tom  was  the  favorite,  a  chestnut  colt 

—22— 


MORVICH 

by  His  Majesty  out  of  Burlesque,  and  owned 
by  William  Daniel.  There  was  a  field  of 
twelve.  Ah,  how  my  heart  was  afire  as  we 
nosed  up  to  the  barrier.  If  only  Runstar  had 
been  there.  But,  failing  that,  I  would  beat  Red 
Tom.  And  I  kept  an  eye  upon  him  and  sidled 
close. 

The  barrier  lifted.  A  sharp  cheer,  a  spatter- 
ing of  handclapping,  and  we  were  off.  This 
was  a  race,  the  first  of  my  life.  It  was  not  play. 
There  was  no  time  now  for  prancing  to  win 
anybody's  heart.  I  was  in  a  race  with  eleven 
good  horses.  Now  was  my  chance.  And, 
strangely  enough,  I  seemed  to  hear  the  voice 
of  Mose,  the  old  Negro  runt  of  my  colthood, 
saying:  "Yo's  got  a  stout  heart.     Le's  go." 

I  went. 

In  six  strides  I  had  taken  the  lead  from 
them  all.  Red  Tom,  the  favorite,  chased  me 
three  furlongs,  then  died  on  his  feet.  He 
finished  eleventh,  next  to  last,  beaten  more 
than  twenty-five  lengths.     Brush  Boy,  Dolly 


-23— 


MORVICH 

Varden,  and  Superillusion  ran  a  good  race. 
But  none  could  touch  me.  My  chance  had 
come  at  last. 

I  won  by  ten  lengths. 


—24— 


MORVICH 

Part  II 
UNDEFEATED 

What  pride  was  mine,  what  joy,  what  elation, 
as  I  returned  to  the  stables  after  winning  the 
Suffolk  Stakes  that  May  day  back  in  1921. 
Victory  is  sweet  in  any  case,  but  doubly  sweet 
it  was  to  me,  who  had  been  regarded  as  the 
cull  of  the  stables,  a  horse  upon  which  it  was 
not  worth  venturing  a  dollar  in  that  race,  even 
though  the  odds  stood  at  50  to  1. 

Ah,  thought  I,  prancing  a  little  for  very 
delight  in  life,  now  those  humans  who  were 
my  masters  would  change  their  opinion  of  me. 
Now  they  would  no  longer  regard  me  as 
awkward,  so  ungainly,  with  such  great  knees, 
that  I  could  never  become  a  racehorse.  Their 
eyes  would  be  opened.  At  the  very  least  they 
would  regard  me  as  a  freak  horse,  built  not 
on  the  trimmest  lines,  perhaps,  yet  able  to  run 


-25- 


MORVICH 

just  the  same.  For  had  I  not  beaten  eleven 
promising  colts,  won  a  purse  of  $3,950  for  my 
masters  and  won  by  ten  lengths? 

Alas,  I  was  to  learn  that  once  an  opinion 
was  formed,  humans  were  slow  to  change. 
Later,  when  men  took  my  career  as  a  text  and 
gossiped  about  this  trait  in  themselves,  I  was 
to  hear  many  stories.  Even  James  Rowe,  the 
veteran  trainer  of  Mr.  Whitney's  stables  and 
the  greatest  in  America,  I  have  heard  it  said, 
let  young  horses  go  for  the  price  of  their  keep, 
which  later  developed  into  $50,000  racers. 
And  once  a  man  said: 

"Same  way  in  everything.  Men  can't  al- 
ways tell  who's  going  to  be  a  winner.  Take 
opera  stars.  Six  years  ago  Mme.  Galli-Curci 
couldn't  get  an  engagement  singing  at  the 
Hippodrome  because  they  said  she  was  too 
homely,  and  Gatti-Casazza  wouldn't  pay  her 
even  $100  a  week  at  the  Metropolitan  because, 
he  said,  she  had  no  voice.  Today  she's  one  of 
the  queens  of  opera,  and  he  pays  her  $2,500  a 

—26— 


MORVICH 

performance." 

But  this  folly  of  men's  minds  was  not  known 
to  me  then.  I  had  won.  I,  the  cull  of  the 
stables.  Now  they  would  accord  me  that  re- 
spect, that  love,  that  care  so  dear  to  the  racer's 
heart.  So,  thought  I,  prancing  back  to  the 
stables  from  my  first  start,  my  first  victory. 

Instead  there  was  a  little  self-gratulation  on 
having  won,  but  no  material  change  in  their 
attitude  toward  me.  I  was  a  poor  horse  in 
their  opinion.  My  victory  merely  made  it  pos- 
sible to  get  a  little  better  price  for  me.  For  to 
sell  me  they  still  were  resolved.  And  two  days 
later  I  was  sold  from  the  Spreckels'  stables  to 
Max  Hirsch,  an  owner  and  trainer,  for  $4,500. 

That  was  a  bad  time  for  me.  For,  look  you, 
m.y  friend,  one  cannot  be  wounded  in  his  self- 
respect  and  take  delight  in  it.  Indeed,  I  moped 
a  bit.  Yet  hardly  had  I  been  moved  from  one 
stable  to  another,  there  at  the  Jam^aica  track, 
than  I  was  sold  again,  without  having  run  a 
race  for  my  second  owner.    And  this  time,  too, 


—2^ 


MORVICH 

I  became  more  deeply  despondent.  Why  not? 
I  knew  from  stable  conversation  that  there  is 
a  race  of  men  who  deal  in  race  horses  as  in 
stocks  and  bonds,  for  speculative  purposes  only. 
I  had  won  a  race;  it  was  worth  gambling  a  bit 
upon  me.  And  so  I  was  sold  to  Fred  Burlew 
for  $7,500. 

And  yet  when  this  newest  owner  sent  me 
to  the  barrier  there  at  Jamaica  May  16,  ten 
days  after  my  first  race,  there  was  nothing  in 
my  heart  except  once  more  a  desire  to  win,  to 
prove  myself  anew,  and  so,  perhaps,  to  earn 
that  master's  love  for  which  I  craved.  Jockey 
Ensor  rode  me.  And  I  was  off  to  a  long  lead 
and  never  let  down.  A  month  later,  June  17 
to  be  exact,  I  ran  again  under  Jockey  Keogh 
at  Aqueduct,  outclassed  the  field,  and  won 
galloping. 

So  far  I  had  run  against  only  indifferent 
horses.  They  were  beautiful,  some  of  them 
possessing  all  the  graceful  lines  I  was  said  to 
lack.     But  they  were  not  the  class  of  racers, 

—28— 


2^ 


%i 


MORVICH 

and  I  yearned  to  try  my  mettle  against  the 
stars.  Ah,  if  I  could  only  match  myself  against 
Runstar,  that  pride  of  the  stables  where  my 
colthood  was  spent,  that  picture  horse  upon 
whom  was  lavished  every  care,  while  I  went 
unregarded! 

The  chance  was  to  come,  but  not  yet. 

Meanwhile  my  race  in  the  Greenfield  Stakes 
had  made  a  strong  impression  upon  a  man  who 
never  before  had  owned  a  horse.  This  was 
Benjamin  Block,  my  present  owner,  who  always 
had  been  interested  in  racing,  but  merely  as  a 
spectator.  He  bought  a  half  interest  in  me 
from  Mr.  Burlew,  and  later  acquired  full  con- 
trol, retaining  Mr.  Burlew  as  trainer. 

I  have  heard  him  say  he  was  attracted  to  me 
by  the  way  in  which  I  ran  the  Greenfield.  On 
a  slow  track,  I  dashed  to  the  front  after  being 
beaten  away  from  the  barrier,  and  won  by  five 
lengths  from  a  speedy  field,  just  galloping  at 
the  end. 

"I  have  always  wanted  to  own  a  horse,"  I 

—29— 


MORVICH 

have  heard  Mr.  Block  say,  "but  I  did  not  want 
one  on  my  hands  who  was  not  a  real  racer.  I 
had  many  chances  to  become  an  owner,  of 
course,  but  never  accepted  them  until  I  saw 
Morvich." 

Ah,  but  that  was  what  I  needed.  That  was 
the  kind  of  talk  to  ease  me  of  the  growing 
bitterness  so  foreign  to  me.  For,  naturally,  I 
am  of  a  sunny  disposition,  and  with  such  talk 
in  my  ears  how  I  did  run  after  that.  The  next 
three  races,  all  unimportant,  I  took  without 
the  least  bit  of  trouble.  They  were  an  ordinary, 
over-night  condition  affair  at  Aqueduct,  July  2; 
the  Sparkhill  Purse  at  Empire  City,  July  9,  and 
a  condition  race  at  the  same  track,  July  20. 

The  next  month  I  was  taken  to  the  Saratoga 
track.  This  time  I  travelled  as  a  thoroughbred 
should  travel,  with  trainer,  exercise  boy  and 
special  detective.  I  was  becoming  a  horse  of 
some  importance.  My  races  had  been  only 
ordinary  ones  so  far,  but  my  owners  had  high 
hopes  of  me.    So  high,  indeed,  that  on  the  eve 


-30- 


MORVICH 

of  my  first  important  race,  the  United  States 
Hotel  Stakes,  Mr.  Block  bought  out  his  partner's 
half  interest  at  a  reported  price  of  $35,000.  I 
was  a  $70,000  horse.  I,  the  cull.  What 
would  Runstar  say  to  that?  And  where  was 
he?  Would  I  meet  him  at  Saratoga?  Ah,  if 
I  could  only  find  him  in  a  race  against  me. 

Before  that  race,  the  United  States  Hotel 
Stakes,  began,  the  odds  on  me  in  the  betting 
books  opened  at  8  to  5  and  went  to  2  to  1.  In 
this  liberal  price  there  was  an  implied  slight 
on  me.  At  least  my  owner  so  considered.  He 
resented  it.  Never  a  heavy  bettor,  he  now  bet 
$10,000  on  me  at  8  to  5.  When  he  heard  the 
price  had  gone  to  2  to  1  he  sent  his  commis- 
sioners another  $10,000,  but  before  it  could  be 
placed  the  price  was  shortened. 

"Bet  the  money  at  whatever  price  you  can 
get,"  ordered  Mr.  Block.  "I'll  teach  'em  to 
recognize  a  good  horse  when  they  see  him." 

I  ran  that  race,  worth  close  to  $10,000, 
with  a  similar  resolve  in  my  heart.     I,  too, 

—31— 


MORVICH 

would  teach  them  to  know  a  good  horse  when 
they  saw  him.  There  were  some  good  horses 
against  me,  Kai-Sang,  Oil  Man  and  Sir  Hugh, 
the  best  of  the  lot.  Pegasus  and  Sunreigh  also 
were  excellent.  As  I  have  said,  it  was  my  first 
important  race.  And,  though,  I  got  away  well 
from  the  post,  yet  I  was  so  much  on  edge,  so 
eager  to  win,  not  to  make  a  mistake,  that  I 
took  things  easy  at  first,  too  easy,  perhaps,  the 
stands  might  have  considered.  I  was  slow  to 
begin.  Ah,  but  they  did  not  know  me.  With 
the  field  ahead,  I  came  up  like  a  thunder-bolt 
on  the  inside,  drove  through  the  ruck,  took  the 
lead  and  fought  out  the  last  furlong  neck-and- 
neck  with  Kai-Sang,  who  had  the  great  Jockey 
Earl  Sande  up.  Kai-Sang  held  on  well,  but  I 
stood  the  long  drive  gamely  and  won. 

A  week  later  came  the  Saratoga  Special, 
worth  $9,500,  and  again  I  won.  It  was  a  repe- 
tition of  the  former  race.  Then,  for  more  than 
two  weeks,  there  was  no  racing  for  me.  I  was 
being  conditioned  for  the  great  race  of  the  meet, 


-32- 


MORVICH 

to  be  held  Aug.  31,  the  closing  day,  the  Hopeful 
Stakes. 

The  day  of  the  great  race  dawned  bright  and 
clear,  but  the  track  was  reported  slow.  That 
was  the  first  sign  of  luck  in  a  day  that  was 
filled  with  them,  for  while  some  racers  break 
their  hearts  on  a  slow  track  I  have  the  wind 
and  the  heart  to  plough  through.  Call  it  game- 
ness,  call  it  what  you  will.  I  run  my  best  when 
there  are  obstacles  to  be  overcome.  And,  on 
this  point,  too,  I  have  heard  men  talk  outside 
my  stall,  saying  it  was  so  with  humans,  that 
those  travelled  the  farthest  who  travelled  the 
hardest  roads  in  their  youth. 

Another  sign  of  luck  was  the  shortening  of 
the  price  against  me  to  6  to  5  and  13  to  10. 
But,  greatest  sign  of  luck  of  all,  was  the  an- 
nouncement that  Runstar  would  be  entered 
against  me.  At  last.  At  last  I  would  have  my 
chance  to  fight  it  out  with  that  young  fellow 
whose  handsome  graces  had  won  the  hearts  of 
the  stables  where  I  was  born,  that  favorite  of 

—33— 


MORVICH 

the  family  in  which  I  had  been  the  ugly 
duckling. 

There  were  other  good  horses  against  me 
for  this  race  carried  a  purse  of  $34,000.  Kai- 
Sang  was  in  again  and  I  must  not  neglea  to 
identify  him  as  the  pride  of  Mr.  Harry  Sinclair's 
Rancocas  stables  and  a  fine  horse.  And  there 
were  Bunting  and  Whiskaway  from  the 
Whitney  stables;  Sunreigh,  the  Kilmer  stable 
pet;  Violinist,  Mr.  Bud  Fisher's  best — good 
horses  all.  But  Runstar!  Ah,  he  was  the  only 
horse  in  the  race  for  me.  The  others  might 
as  well  not  have  been  present. 

I  started  with  a  terrific  pace,  and  a  great 
roar  went  up  from  the  stands.  There  should 
be  no  dallying  here,  no  delay  on  my  part  while 
the  field  went  ahead  that  I  might  look  them 
over.  A  terrific  pace,  and  I  never  drew  up.  I 
was  never  headed,  and  won  easily,  galloping. 
And  when  I  passed  the  judge's  stand  Runstar 
was  ten  lengths  behind. 

My  racing  season  was  nearing  an  end.    We 

—34— 


MORVICH 

travelled  south  in  style  and  on  Sept.  211  won 
the  $7,000  Eastern  Shore  Handicap  at  Havre 
de  Grace  and  Nov.  5,  at  Pimlico,  scored  my 
eleventh  and  last  victory  in  the  Pimlico  Futuri- 
ty, winning  $42,750,  which  brought  my  total 
winnings  for  the  season  to  $115,285  in  eleven 
races. 

Runstar  during  the  same  period  started  nine 
times,  won  three  races,  was  third  in  one,  finished 
unplaced  in  five.  He  won  a  total  of  $5,301. 
Compare  our  records  for  the  season,  my  friend, 
those  of  the  pride  of  the  stable  and  cast-off,  the 
cull. 

But,  as  I  have  said,  man  does  not  always 
know  beforehand  who  will  be  the  winner.  If 
he  did,  why,  there  would  be  no  race  horses. 


—35— 


MORVICH 

Part  III 
DERBY  DAY 

This  is  the  eve  of  Derby  Day. 

I  am  stabled  at  Churchill  Downs,  not  far 
from  the  city  of  Louisville,  Kentucky.  This 
is  the  very  heart  and  capital  of  all  the  Blue 
Grass  Region  where  since  Daniel  Boone  and 
his  fellow  pioneers  first  followed  the  Wilder- 
ness Trail  through  Cumberland  Gap  from  the 
Eastern  Shore,  the  horse  has  been  king.  Through 
all  the  dark  years  when  the  breeding  and  rac- 
ing of  thoroughbreds  languished  in  other  parts 
of  the  country,  when  legislatures  and  purity 
leagues  combined  to  close  the  great  tracks, 
racing  has  been  kept  alive  here.  For  fifty  years 
the  annual  American  classic  of  the  turf,  the 
Kentucky  Derby,  has  been  run  here.  Tomor- 
row it  will  be  run  again  and — I  will  be  out  to 
win  it. 


-36- 


MORVICH 

I,  Morvich,  the  Awkward,  the  cast-off,  the 
cull  of  other  days. 

Where  are  the  others? 

Where  is  Red  Tom?  Where  is  Kai-Sang? 
And,  above  all,  where  is  Runstar?  There  is 
no  answer  to  that  question.  There  can  be  none. 
Those  picture  horses  have  been  left  behind  in 
the  race.    It  is  I,  the  cull,  who  have  gone  up. 

I  tell  you,  my  friend,  my  feelings  are  rather 
varied  on  this  occasion.  As  I  stand  in  my 
stall,  here  on  the  edge  of  this  vast  race  course, 
where  tomorrow  all  the  fashion  and  beauty  of 
the  South  will  be  gathered  under  the  sunshine, 
but  which  tonight  is  empty  and  dark  and 
tenanted  only  by  the  ghosts  of  great  horses  of 
the  past  who  have  run  their  course  and  gone 
on,  here  I  am  inclined  to  solemn  thought. 

I  have  no  fears  for  the  morrow.  I  shall  run 
to  win.  That  is  all  that  counts.  If  there  is  a 
better  horse  than  I,  he  will  know  at  least  that 
he  has  been  in  a  horse  race.  But  there  is  a 
nameless  something  stirring  in  me.     I  know 

—37— 


MORVICH 

not  how  to  describe  it.  Yet  I  suppose  all  fight- 
ers experience  it  on  the  eve  of  great  battles — 
the  veteran  of  the  ring,  the  soldier  in  the 
trench. 

Ah,  how  I  thank  my  stars  tonight  for  the 
blood  that  is  in  me,  for  from  it  in  all  likelihood 
I  derive  the  equable  disposition  which  has 
brought  me  unshaken  through  all  the  stress  of 
a  tumultuous  though  brief  career.  With  us 
thoroughbreds,  you  know,  there  is  always  the 
danger  of  too  close  inbreeding.  The  great 
strains  are  not  many.  Breeders  must  watch 
very  carefully  to  keep  them  far  enough  apart, 
else  will  the  foals  be  fractious,  excitable,  prone 
to  sickness  of  one  kind  and  another,  unbalanced. 
But,  fortunately  for  me,  my  sire,  Runnymede, 
and  my  dam,  Hymir,  were  further  apart  in  re- 
lationship than  most. 

And  I  need  all  that  balance,  all  that 
equanimity  which  marks  me,  now.  Up  at 
Jamaica,  some  ten  days  ago,  when  I  was  being 
given  my  early  workouts  on  the  track,  some 

—38— 


MORVICH 

stories  of  the  Derby  reached  me.  For  one 
thing,  it  was  common  talk  among  horsemen 
that  the  race  was  too  early  in  the  year  for  three- 
year-olds,  and  that  those  who  ran  a  great  race 
in  the  Derby  broke  afterward  and  were  little 
good  for  racing  again.  For  another  it  was  said 
the  distance  of  a  mile  and  a  quarter  was  too 
much  for  me.  It  is  true  I  have  never  raced  that 
distance  but  my  final  workout  before  we  left 
Jamaica  a  week  ago  was  over  a  distance  of  a 
mile  and  a  furlong  and  I  did  it  in  1:58. 

As  for  the  statement  that  the  three-year-olds 
break  after  the  Derby  that  is  not  as  true  as 
mJght  be.  Great  three-year-olds,  if  they  return 
to  the  track  for  further  racing,  arc  placed  under 
increasing  handicap.  Each  race  they  win,  the 
handicap  grows.  Rather,  therefore,  than  per- 
mit them  to  be  broken  by  carrying  grievous 
weight,  owners  frequently  withdraw  great 
horses  in  order  to  put  them  to  stud  and  thus 
perpetuate  the  strain. 

But,  as  I  look  through  the  wire  screen  of  my 


-39- 


MORVICH 

stall,  upon  which  is  the  brass  plate,  bearing 
my  name  and  those  of  my  dam  and  sire,  out 
over  the  silent  downs,  vast  and  shadowy  and 
deserted  with  the  great  stands  looming  large 
beneath  the  moonlight  in  the  distance,  I  take 
heart  of  hope  from  a  reflection  or  two.  And, 
principally,  I  am  thinking  of  what  little  Mose, 
that  little  darky  stableboy  of  my  early  days, 
used  to  whisper  to  me:  "Yo-all's  got  de  stout 
hea't,  Honey  Boy.    Dat's  wot  wins  de  race." 

Ah,  how  true  that  is.  Perhaps  you  who 
watch  the  horses  run  are  of  the  opinion  that 
the  speediest  horse  wins,  other  things  being 
even.  That  is  not  true.  The  race  is  not  always 
to  the  swift.  A  racer  has  got  to  have  speed 
and  endurance,  of  course,  but  above  all  else  he 
must  have  class.  And  class  is  naught  more  or 
less  than  stoutheartedness. 

We  are  out  there,  racing.  One  horse  leads. 
Another  thunders  up  behind  him.  "Come  on, 
boy,  come  on!"  The  roar  from  the  stands 
sweeps  out  across  infield  and  track.    The  heart 


—40- 


MORVICH 

of  the  leading  horse,  an  animal  so  sensitive 
that  he  thrills  to  the  touch  of  a  lady's  glove, 
beats  suffocatingly.  That  shouting  from  the 
stands;  that  thunder  of  hoof  beats  behind.  Ah, 
he  cannot  stand  this!  He  must  pull  up.  And, 
speedier  though  he  may  be,  the  stouter-hearted 
wins. 

And  I  remember  what  I  once  heard  of  that 
famous  race  between  Man-o'-War  and  John  P. 
Grier.  Until  he  met  the  latter,  Man-o'-War 
had  never  been  given  a  real  race.  But  when 
he  ran  alone  against  Mr.  Whitney's  great 
horse,  they  thundered  neck  and  neck  around 
the  rail  and  started  neck  and  neck  down  the 
home  stretch,  with  not  so  m.uch  room  between 
the  tips  of  their  noses  as  would  show  daylight. 
Yet,  Man-o'-War  won.  Speedier?  Perhaps. 
More  likely  he  was  merely  the  stouter-hearted. 

Well,  I  have  the  class — the  stout  heart. 
Never  yet  have  I  become  fractious  or  excitable 
in  the  paddock  before  a  race.  Never  have  I 
gone  on  the  track  that  I  did  not  come  to  the 


—41- 


MORVICH 

barrier  without  giving  my  jockey  any  trouble. 
I  have  pranced  a  little  at  times.  Who  would 
not,  out  there  in  the  sunshine,  with  the  band 
playing,  and  amidst  that  gay  scene? 

Gay  scene?  It  is  quiet  enough  here  now. 
Here  and  there  a  light  gleams  in  the  dark  en- 
shrouded stables.  Along  the  stalls  come  the 
occasional  snores  of  exercise  and  horse  boys. 
Outside  I  can  hear  the  low  voices  of  my  Charley 
White  and  little  Al  Johnson.  They  are  talking 
about  me,  I  know,  though  I  cannot  hear  what 
they  say.  But  let  them  talk.  There  is  nothing 
but  love  in  their  hearts  for  me.  Charley  is  my 
assistant  trainer,  the  man  who  brought  me  in 
a  box  car  from  Jamaica  to  the  Downs  a  week 
ago.  He  is  a  light-colored  Negro,  and,  oh,  how 
he  knows  and  understands  a  horse. 

"Morvich,  run!"  I  heard  him  say  the  other 
day.     "Huh.     He  could  beat  de  Sperits." 

As  for  little  Al,  he  rode  me  in  the  Pimlico 
Futurity,  my  last  race  last  fall.  I  know  him. 
He  knows  me.    He  is  not  a  jockey  with  a  great 


-42- 


MORVICH 

name  as  yet,  and  for  that  I  am  thankful.  When 
we  run  the  Derby  tomorrow,  my  friend,  I  do 
not  want  upon  me  a  jockey  of  thirty  years  who 
has  made  his  quarter  million.  Such  a  one 
hears  little  voices  whisper  to  him  when  there 
comes  a  little  hole  in  the  ruck  ahead.  "TuU 
wide,  pull  wide,"  these  little  voices  say,  'you 
have  made  your  name  and  fortune.  Live  to 
enjoy  them.  Why  take  a  chance  at  this  late 
day  on  being  spilled  and  put  out  of  the  game 
for  life?"  So  he  pulls  wide,  and  the  race  is 
lost.  The  horse  was  willing,  but  not  the  boy. 
No;  give  me  the  ambitious  youngster,  with  all 
the  world  ahead,  name  and  fortune  to  be  made. 
He  will  send  me  into  that  hole,  his  heart  as 
stout  as  mine,  and  we  will  go  through. 

Their  voices  die  away;  naught  comes  now 
but  an  occasional  snore  from  a  stableboy,  or 
the  movement  of  some  horse  in  his  stall;  the 
scattered  lights  in  the  stables  go  out  one  by 
one;  the  night  grows  late;  it  is  time  for  me 
to  give  over  these  reflections  and  get  some 

—43— 


MORVICH 

sleep  against  the  morrow. 

Tomorrow?  It  will  be  the  greatest  day  of 
my  career.  Whether  I  climb  the  heights  or 
go  down  fighting,  I  shall  run  the  greatest  race 
there  is  in  me.    That  I  know. 

I  have  never  seen  a  Derby  Day,  but  I  know 
what  to  expect,  for  naught  else  has  been  talked 
of  this  week  in  the  stables.  The  great  folks 
from  all  the  South,  from  Mobile,  Richmond, 
New  Orleans,  Charleston — from  all  the  manors 
of  the  Eastern  Shore  and  the  baronies  of  Vir- 
ginia and  Kentucky,  where  great  horses  are 
bred,  will  come  by  motor  car  and  special  train. 
All  day  long  today  the  sportsmen  of  the  East 
and  West  and  North,  likewise,  have  been 
rolling  into  Louisville.  Every  hotel  room  is 
filled,  every  boarding  house.  Private  homes 
have  thrown  open  their  hospitable  doors  to 
guests.  There  is  feasting  and  revelry  in  Louis- 
ville tonight. 

And  tomorrow  all  these  humans  will  pack 
the   stands,   surge  through   the  paddock,   and 


Mr.  Burlew  and  Mr.  Block  at  Morvich  Victory 
Dinner 


MORVICH 

crowd  the  outside  rail.  Upon  the  warm  and 
languid  air  the  bands  will  pour  out  their  mad- 
ness. The  stands  will  look  like  a  great  and 
living  bouquet,  with  color  running  riot.  In 
the  boxes  of  the  clubhouse  gallery  will  be  the 
most  beautiful  women  in  America.  Women 
and  horses — ah!  the  South  knows  the  combina- 
tion. Thousands  of  motor  cars  will  be  packed 
in  the  outfield,  the  dust  of  many  States  upon 
them,  for  they  will  have  come  a  long  way  to 
Derby  Day.  And  the  infield,  the  prettiest  in 
America,  with  its  blooming  flower  beds,  will 
bear  in  flowers,  opposite  the  judges'  stand,  the 
name  of  last  year's  Derby  winner:  "Behave 
Yourself."  Will  it  be  "Morvich"  next  year? 
What  do  I  care  how  great  the  horses  I  shall 
meet?  It  is  I  who  go  in  as  favorite.  I,  Morvich, 
the  cull,  the  California  horse — the  first  from 
the  Far  West  to  come  East  and  perform  well, 
thus  violating  the  Eastern  tradition  that  Cali- 
fornia climate  cannot  produce  great  horses  that 
can  stand  the  heavier  air  of  these  low,  hot 

—45— 


MORVICH 

lands  of  the  East — I  go  in  the  favorite. 

The  hour  is  late.     Battle  comes  with  dawn. 
Wish  me  luck.     I  shall  sleep  upon  my  arms. 


46 


MORVICH 

Part  IV 
VICTORY 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  have  died 
away.  It  is  all  over.  The  great  Kentucky 
Derby  has  been  run.  And  I  am  back  in  my 
stall.  Ah,  my  friend,  but  you  should  have  been 
with  me  in  that  race. 

Day  dawned  clear  and  warm,  and  the  track 
at  Churchill  Downs  was  reported  lightning- 
fast.  I  could  see  it  out  there,  all  brown  and 
smooth,  harrowed  and  picked  clean.  Beyond 
it  lay  the  infield.  All  were  deserted  in  the 
early  morning  hours,  but  during  that  period 
there  were  other  matters  to  think  about.  The 
stables  where  we  thoroughbreds  entered  to  run 
in  the  Derby  and  the  races  preceding  were 
housed,  were  all  astir  with  bustling  horse  boys, 
feeding,  watering  and  grooming  us;  trainers 
examining   us  critically   for   possible    injuries 

—47— 


MORVICH 

needing  attention;  owners  and  others  loitering 
in  knots  and  talking  of  the  coming  race. 

The  race?  Yes,  for  there  was  only  one 
discussed — the  Derby.  The  entries  finally  had 
come  down  to  ten.  Some  of  the  best  horses 
were  said  to  be  out  of  it,  horses  picked  to  give 
me  the  hardest  competition.  Ah,  but  is  it  not 
always  like  that?  When  one  has  done  his  best 
and  won,  they  say:  "Yes,  but  it  would  have 
been  different,  there  would  have  been  another 
tale  to  tell,  if  Thus  and  So  had  been  opposed." 

Yet,  of  the  ten  of  us  left,  we  were  the  class 
of  three-year-olds.  And  it  was  I  who  was  the 
favorite — I,  Morvich,  the  ugly  duckling  of  the 
stable  where  I  was  born.  Favorite,  indeed; 
yet  still  men  could  not  bring  themselves  to  be- 
lieve in  me  because  of  my  thick  foreknees  and 
overlengthy  hind  legs.  "No,  he  has  won  his 
races  so  far  through  some  freak  of  fate;"  they 
said,  "now  he  will  meet  the  classiest  horses  of 
the  American  turf.  This  will  be  different." 
And  so,  favorite  though  I  was,  I  was  held  odds 

—48— 


MORVICH 

on  in  the  betting,  at  4  to  5  or  even  money. 

Of  this  I  learned  through  Mr.  Block,  my 
owner,  and  Mr.  Burlew,  my  trainer.  They 
spoke  of  it  outside  my  stall. 

"All  my  money  is  on  him  to  win,"  declared 
Mr.  Block.  "And  today,  throughout  America, 
wherever  there  are  hearts  that  beat  for  game- 
ness,  they  are  betting  on  Morvich.  I  venture 
to  say  there  are  millions  bet  upon  him.  This 
will  be  the  greatest  moneyed  race  in  history. 
The  ugly  duckling  is  out  to  win,  and  those 
who  love  the  man  who  comes  from  behind 
are  betting  on  him." 

And  Mr.  Burlew  replied:  "He'll  win." 

Ah,  there  is  a  trainer.  In  conditioning  me 
for  this  race,  he  had  violated  many  traditions. 
Only  once,  and  that  a  few  days  before,  had  he 
run  me  the  Derby  distance  of  a  mile  and  a 
quarter.  For  the  ease  of  my  training  he  had 
been  criticised.  And  wise  and  shrewd  judge 
of  horses  though  he  is,  I  knew  he  was  under 
great   strain   as    the   Derby   hour  approached. 

—49— 


MORVICH 

There  is  ben\'een  sensitive  horses  and  sensitive 
men  a  kinship  that  transcends  the  need  for 
language.  What  one  feels  is  known  to  the 
other.     It  was  so  with  us. 

Presently,  then,  the  motor  cars  began  ar- 
riving, the  stands  to  fill  up.  And  then  we  were 
taken  to  the  paddock.  The  lesser  races  were 
run.  Of  them  I  knew  nothing,  except  that 
horses  departed  from  the  paddock,  sharp  cheers 
rent  the  air,  the  thud  of  hoofs  came  back  from 
the  track,  a  gong  clanged,  and  horses  returned. 

But  at  length,  after  long  waiting,  the  Derby 
hour  struck.  It  was  late,  nearing  five  o'clock. 
But  the  air  was  warm,  the  sun  bright. 

Ah,  my  friend,  how  describe  to  you  the 
feeling  that  animated  me  as  little  Al  Johnson, 
my  jockey,  rode  me  to  the  barrier?  Beautiful 
women  filled  the  club  house  boxes.  The  stands 
were  densely  packed  and  ablaze  with  many 
colors,  for  these  Kentucky  women  are  not  afraid 
to  put  on  gaiety  at  a  fete.  And  as  we  moved 
along  the  track,  it  could  be  seen  there  were 

—50— 


MORVICH 

dense  masses  of  men  packing  the  outer  rail  to 
and  beyond  the  quarter  pole.  In  the  infield 
were  thousands  upon  thousands  of  lesser  folk. 
Indeed,  someone  said  there  were  50,000  there, 
and  that  Governor  Morrow  of  the  State  was 
taking  the  occasion  to  address  them  upon 
naught  other  than  the  subject  of  myself — my 
career. 

Ah,  but  when  I  appeared  on  the  track,  you 
should  have  heard  the  clamor.  It  seemed  to 
me  it  would  rend  the  heavens  above,  or  shatter 
my  ears.  Sweeter  music  was  never  heard.  How 
now  expect  the  Governor  to  hold  attention. 
"Morvich!  Morvich!"  was  the  cry  from  all 
sections. 

And  up  in  the  clubhouse,  in  his  box,  sat  Mr. 
Block,  cold  to  all  outward  appearance,  but  a 
gleam  in  his  eye  all  the  same.  And  somewhere 
near  was  Mr.  Burlew,  surrounded  by  friends, 
and  the  one  glimpse  I  caught  of  him  showed 
him  far  from  cool,  though  keeping  himself  in 
hand. 


-51- 


MORVICH 

That  parade  to  the  post.  How  describe  it? 
One  must  see  such  things  to  know  what  they 
are  Hke.  There  were  ten  of  us,  thoroughbreds, 
the  class  of  the  turf,  and  let  nobody  tell  you  we 
did  not  know  it.  What  beautiful  things  they 
were,  those  other  horses.  I  could  not  help 
admiring  them,  even  envying  them  a  little, 
their  grace  and  perfection  of  form.  Yet  it  was 
I  who  was  Morvich,  the  Unbeaten;  I,  the  least 
well-favored  of  them  all.  Ah,  well,  so  it  goes 
often  in  life,  I  have  heard  men  say. 

Ahead  of  us  out  of  the  paddock  moved  the 
crimson-coated  trumpeter.  Behind  him  went 
John  Finn,  a  great  horse,  then  the  filly,  Startle, 
then  My  Play,  then  I.  My  Play?  Yes,  full 
brother  to  the  great  Man-o'-War,  the  Wonder 
Horse  of  1920,  with  whom  my  name  has  been 
coupled.  And  to  myself  I  said:  "If  you  cannot 
have  Man-o'-War  to  race  against,  at  least  you 
shall  have  his  full  brother,  and  we  will  see 
what  can  be  done." 

What  a  horse  was  My  Play  to  look  upon. 


-52- 


MORVICH 

He  filled  the  eye.  He  pranced,  knowing  well 
the  import  of  his  family  name.  Busy  American, 
heavily  bandaged  on  the  nigh  foreleg  because 
of  a  bowed  tendon,  yet  prancing,  full  of  spirit; 
Surf  Rider,  so  fractious  he  had  to  be  led  to  the 
post — ah,  we  all  knew  we  were  to  be  in  a  race. 
As  for  myself,  I  was  not  at  all  nervous,  I  knew 
what  was  expected  of  me,  and  with  teeth 
crunching  the  bits,  pulling  for  my  head,  I  went 
soberly  along. 

Yet,  at  the  post  I  wanted  to  be  off  at  once. 
This  would  not  do.  There  had  to  be  perfect 
alignment.  Several  times  I  darted  forward. 
Finally,  one  of  the  starter's  assistants  took  my 
head,  and  held  me  thus  until  the  barrier  lifted. 
We  were  off! 

"Boy,"  said  little  Al,  leaning  forward  to  my 
ear;  "they  want  us  to  ride  this  race  to  win." 
He  had  to  hold  me  in. 

Yet  the  race  was  won  in  the  first  hundred 
yards.  For  in  that  distance  I  was  free  and  clear 
of  the  field,  I  had  the  rail,  and  there  could  be 

—53— 


MORVICH 

no  jam  or  piling  up  on  the  turns. 

I  covered  that  first  furlong  in  a  little  under 
eleven,  killed  the  field  at  the  start,  and  took 
the  fight  and  heart  out  of  all  those  picture 
horses.  First  one  and  then  another  of  the  field 
would  forge  ahead  and  try  to  come  up  with  me. 
But  each  who  thus  bid  for  fame  held  on  but  a 
little  while,  then  fell  away.  Behind,  I  could 
hear  whip  being  plied  as  we  came  into  the 
stretch,  and  I  knew  those  beautiful  horses  were 
being  given  whip  and  spur  in  the  endeavor  to 
force  them  up  to  my  race.  But  no  whip  ever 
touched  me.  And  I  would  have  run  faster  had 
it  been  necessary,  but  little  Al  never  let  my 
head  out,  even  in  the  stretch,  but  always  held 
me  in.  Perhaps  he  will  be  criticised  for  not 
trying  to  break  the  Derby  time,  but  he  had 
orders  to  ride  a  "win  race"  and  that  he  did. 

As  for  breaking  records,  many  a  horse  has 
been  driven  to  do  that,  and  has  never  run 
again.  Last  year  John  P.  Grier  at  the  Aque- 
duct, I  have  heard  it  said,  was  ridden  at  a 

—54— 


MORVICH 

terrific  pace  in  his  race  with  Man-o'-War.  On 
the  home  stretch  there  was  a  time  even  when 
he  got  his  nose  ahead  of  the  greater  horse. 
But  he  has  never  raced  since.  That  pace  is 
kilhng  on  a  racer. 

And  so  I  came  home,  just  galloping,  at  the 
end.  I  had  taken  the  lead,  I  was  never  headed, 
and  I  won  by  two  lengths. 

That  is  all.  It  is  over  now.  Whatever  else 
I  shall  do,  whatever  laurels  I  shall  receive  in 
other  races,  cannot  compare  to  this: 

That  I,  the  ugly  duckling,  the  horse  sold  four 
times  before  an  owner  could  be  found  who 
would  put  faith  in  me,  ran  undefeated  through 
a  season  and  won  the  Derby  crown. 

(THE  END) 


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-56- 


Supplement 

Publisher's  Note — Morvich  was  retired  in  1922 
and  from  the  outset  of  his  career  in  the  stud  was 
remarkably  successful.  He  sired  a  very  high  per- 
centage of  Stake  Winners. 

Morvich  stood  at  Haylands  Farm,  in  Kentucky, 
near  Lexington.  He  held  court  there  for  17  years. 
He  was  under  the  care  of  Miss  Elizabeth  Dainger- 
field,  who  also  cared  for  Man-o*-"War. 

Morvich,  a  Kentucky 
Derby  Winner,  Dead 

Los  Angeles,  Jan.  27,  (AP) — ^Morvich, 
California -bred  horse  which  won  the  Kentucky 
Derby  in  1922,  died  yesterday  at  the  Ad  Astra 
ranch  in  nearby  San  Fernando  valley.  At  stud 
for  the  last  six  years,  Morvich  was  27  years 
old.  He  was  owned  by  Arthur  Mosse. 
Last  February  we  received  a  letter  from  Mr. 
Arthur  Mosse  of  Van  Nuys,  California,  and  among 

—57— 


other  things  he  wrote  is  the  following: 

"Now  I  will  put  you  right  about  the  ownership 
of  Morvich. 

"I  did  not  own  the  horse.  He  was  still  owned 
by  the  man  who  raced  him,  Benjamin  Block.  Mor- 
vich had  been  for  some  time  in  the  care  of  Miss 
Elizabeth  Daingerfield  of  Lexington,  Ky.  Miss 
Daingerfield  used  to  be  in  charge  of  Man-o'-War, 
and  as  she  knew  my  daughter,  Justine,  she  asked  her 
if  she  would  not  like  to  bring  Morvich  to  California 
so  he  could  end  his  days  on  his  native  heath.  Justine 
therefore  went  right  back  about  Christmas,  7  years 
ago,  with  a  heavy  trailer  hitched  to  a  light  car  and 
hauled  Morvich  out  here  in  the  snow  and  ice,  some- 
times only  making  40  miles  a  day,  but  unloading 
the  horse  every  night. 

"I  took  care  of  the  old  horse  most  of  the  time. 
He  was  the  sweetest  stallion  I  ever  saw.  I  could  put 
my  arms  around  his  head  and  my  cheek  on  his  fore- 
head. He  was  very  happy  here,  and  when  I  took 
him  in  and  out  with  only  a  halter  on  him,  he  would 
frisk  around  like  a  colt. 

"He  did  just  that  his  last  morning.  He  felt  fine. 
I  could  always  tell  that  from  the  way  he  acted. 
However,  he  used  to  roll  in  a  certain  spot  every 
morning,  and  it  hurt  him  to  do  so.  Made  him  groan. 
I  was  sitting  in  the  house  one  morning,  after  having 


-58— 


all  my  work  done,  and  all  the  horses  out  there  eating 
hay.  I  heard  Morvich  groan,  and  when  he  kept  on 
groaning,  I  hurried  out  to  see  what  the  trouble  was 
and  there  he  was  all  stretched  out  in  his  favorite  spot. 
I  just  got  there  in  time  to  hold  his  head  while  he 
drew  his  last  breath. 

"I  sure  felt  then,  and  still  feel  that  I  had  lost  one 
of  the  family. 

"Someone  in  Kentucky  had  fed  Morvich  mouldy 
clover  hay,  and  he  had  the  heaves.  That  will,  as  a 
rule,  kill  a  horse  in  a  short  while.  But  Morvich 
was  a  horse  with  a  great  heart  and  he  had  the  will 
to  live.  Of  course  he  had  the  best  feed  we  could 
give  him,  and  we  got  the  heaves  down  so  he  breathed 
easier,  but  he  was  living  on  borrowed  time  for  years. 
Morvich  died  on  Saturday  morning,  January  26, 
1946." 

Sincerely  yours, 

ARTHUR  MOSSE. 


-59- 


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—60— 


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-61- 


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'^-'^  I'S'S  ?  =  I  ~ 


Unusual  Happenings  in 
Racing 

At  Saratoga,  on  September  1,  1934,  in  the  seventh 
race,  Anna  V.  L.  caused  a  jam  at  the  start.  Noble 
Spirit  swerved  into  Semaphore,  who  in  turn  fouled 
Anna  V.  L.  All  three  were  disquaUfied,  after  finish- 
ing in  the  order  named.  The  race  was  awarded  to 
Just  Cap,  which  had  finished  fourth.  A  triple 
disqualification. 


Two  of  the  longest  priced  winners  of  1933,  or 
any  other  year,  were  ridden  by  Jockey  V.  Wallis. 
At  Agua  Cahente,  on  January  8,  he  piloted  King 
Jack  to  victory  with  a  payoff  of  $820  for  the  usual 
$2  investment.  On  February  24,  at  the  same  track, 
Wallis  won  with  Augeas,  which  paid  $840  for  $2. 
Only  one  ticket  was  sold  on  the  latter  horse,  D.  L. 
Harris  of  Oklahoma  being  the  only  backer  of  the 
neglected  racer. 


Bob  Wade,  carrying  122  pounds  at  the  age  of  four 
stepped  ^  of  a  mile  in  2 1  ^  seconds,  at  Butte,  Mon- 
tana, August  20,  1890. 

That  is  still  the  world's  record  for  the  distance. 


—62- 


CARTER  HANDICAP 

6th  Race  at  Aqueduct,  N.  Y.,  June  10,  1944 

Brownie  on  rail;  Bassuet  in  center;  Wait  a  Bit  on  the  outside 

A  Triple  Dead  Heat 

The  only  triple  dead  heat  in  the  history  of  the  American  turf. 


Phar  Lap,  winner  of  the  Agua  Caliente  Handi- 
cap in  1932,  was  bred  in  New  Zealand  and  sold  for 
$800  at  the  yearling  auction  sales.  He  won  51  races 
and    $332,250. 


Gay  World  sold  for  $250  at  a  Texas  yearling  sale. 
In  1933  he  won  thirteen  races,  including  the  Chicago 
Derby. 


The  filly  Genesta,  owned  by  R.  T.  Wilson  and 
piloted  by  Jockey  Woolf,  won  the  first  race  on  the 
day  the  Havre-de-Grace  track  was  opened,  August 
24,   1912. 


H.  D.  "Curly"  Brown  built  the  Laurel  track, 
and  threw  it  open  to  the  public  on  October  2,  1911. 
Royal  Onyx,  owned  by  M.  Utterback  and  ridden  by 
Joe  Byrne,  won  the  first  race  on  opening  day. 


The  first  race  over  the  Saratoga  track,  in  1863, 
was  won  by  Dr.  Welden's  mare,  Lizzie  W.,  with 
Jockey  Sewell  in  the  saddle.  The  race  was  run  over 
what  is  now  known  as  the  Horse  Haven  track,  used 
only  for  training. 


—64— 


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At  Agua  Caliente  on  March  13,  1934,  no  straight 
mutual  tickets  were  sold  on  either  Old  Kickapoo  or 
Patricia  Grey,  starters  in  the  fifth  race.  Old  Kicka- 
poo won.  Those  who  held  place  tickets  on  him 
received  $230.40  for  $2. 


In  1870,  when  racing  was  resumed  over  the 
Pimlico  track  after  an  interruption  caused  by  the 
Civil  War,  the  first  race  was  at  two  miles,  over  the 
hurdles,  and  was  won  by  the  mare  Biddy  Malone, 
Jockey  Gaffney  up. 


The  original  Santa  Anita  track  was  opened  De- 
cember 7,  1907.  The  first  race  was  won  by  the 
popular  campaigner.  Magazine,  owned  by  R.  F. 
Carman  and  ridden  by  Guy  Burns. 


Walter  Miller,  a  great  Jockey  of  40  years  ago, 
brought  home  3  88  winners  in  1905.  That  is  an 
American  record  for  riding  the  most  winners  in  a 
single  year. 


Mary  McFadden,  a  two-year-old,  and  Laura 
Booter,  a  three-year-old  were  full  sisters.  They  won 
the  first  and  second  races  respectively  at  Grasham 
Park,  Portland,  Oregon,  on  July  22,  193  5.  Both 
races  were  at  five  and  one-half  furlongs;  the  of- 
ficial time  for  both  races  was  the  same  (1:10);  both 

—66— 


ROAMER.  Jockey  Jimmie  Butwell  up 


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—68— 


"Tod"  Sloan,  the  most  brilliant  jockey  who  ever  sat  on  a 
horse  (on  the  right),  and  "Skeets"  Martin.  This  photograph 
was  taken  at  Morris  Park  on  the  day  before  they  first  decided 
to  sail  for  England. 


started  from  Number  Five  post  position;  both  were 
ridden  by  Jockey  H.  Scurlock;  both  were  bred  by 
Senator  J.  N.  McFadden;  both  were  owned  by  H. 
W.  Ray;  both  were  trained  by  J.  Simpson,  and  both 
were  maidens  when  they  went  to  the  post. 


In  the  running  of  the  Adirondack  Handicap  of 
1932  at  Saratoga,  New  York,  Speed  Boat,  Barn 
Swallow  and  Enactment  finished  in  the  order  named. 
The  same  horses  finished  in  the  same  order  over  the 
same  track  in  the  Test  Stakes  in  1933. 


Blitzen  won  ten  races  in  37  days  in  1893,  be- 
ginning November  7.  He  finished  second  on  six 
occasions,  annexed  the  show  end  of  the  purse  once 
and  was  unplaced  once.  Running  eighteen  races  in 
37  days,  he  raced  practically  every  alternate  day. 
Jockey  H.  Jones  rode  him  in  seventeen  of  his  eight- 
een races. 


Here's  a  sermon  in  a  sentence:  An  old  horseman 
broke  his  leg.  He  was  poverty-stricken.  All  his 
friends  said  they  were  sorry  for  him.  John  E.  Mad- 
den said  nothing — but  he  sent  the  unfortunate  man 
a  check  for  one  thousand  dollars. 


-70- 


WILLIE  SIMMS 
The  Great  Negro  Jockey 

He  was  the  first  American  jockey  to  ride 
in  England. 

Simms  won  the  Kentucky  Derby  on  Ben 
Brush  in  1896,  and  on  Plaudit  in  1898. 


George  Odom,  the  trainer,  was  a  leading  jockey 
forty  years  ago.  He  made  a  great  reputation  when 
he  rode  for  W.  H.  Clark,  owner  of  the  great  racer, 
Banastar.  Mr.  Clark  built  the  Empire  City  race 
track,  which  was  acquired  by  the  late  James  Butler 
and  now  is  operated  by  his  heirs. 


Roseben,  owned  by  Davy  Johnson,  started  41  times 
in  1906,  to  win  27  races,  place  11  times  and  take 
the  short  end  5  times.  On  only  5  occasions  did  he 
finish  outside  the  money.  The  preceeding  year  he 
had  gathered  19  out  of  39  starts,  being  second  5 
times,  third  on  two  occasions  and  among  the  "also 
rans"  on  only  3  occasions. 


Roseben's  first  start  over  a  California  track  was 
at  Oakland,  on  November  26,  1908.  Ridden  by 
Jockey  Holmes,  he  was  favorite  at  4  to  5,  and  won 
easily. 


"Little  Pete,"  the  Chinese  plunger  was  prominent 
at  all  California  tracks  50  years  ago.  He  set  it  in 
when  he  felt  he  was  right,  but  he  liked  to  have  an 
ace  in  the  hole  and  "fixed"  many  races.  When  they 
caught  up  with  him,  on  March  26,  1896,  he  was 
ruled  off  for  life,  along  with  three  jockeys — Jerry 
Chorn,  Francois  Chevalier  and  Arthur  Heinrichs. 


-72- 


JOCKEY  EARLE  SANDE 

Sande  won  3  Kentucky  Derbys.  On  Zev 
in  1923,  Flying  Ebony  in  1925  and  Gallant 
Fox  in  1930. 


The  Four  Fastest  Derbies 

When  Old  Rosebud,  owned  by  H.  C.  Applegate, 
ran  the  Derby  distance  of  one  mile  and  one-quarter 
in  2:03  2/5  in  1914,  he  established  a  record  that 
stood  for  seventeen  years.  Twenty  Grand,  owned  by 
Greentree  Stable,  lowered  the  Derby  mark  to  2:01 
4/5  in  1931,  after  having  set  a  new  American  time 
record  of  1:36  for  two-year-olds  the  preceding  fall 
in  the  Jockey  Club  Stakes  at  Churchill  Downs. 

Twenty  Grand's  record  stood  for  ten  years,  until 
1941  when  Calumet  Farm's  Whirlaway  bettered  it  by 
two-fifths  of  a  second,  running  the  mile  and  one- 
quarter  in  2:01  2/5.  While  he  did  not  set  a  record 
himself,  Glen  Riddle  Farm's  War  Admiral  is  the  only 
other  Derby  winner  to  better  the  record  set  by  Old 
Rosebud. 

Whirlaway's  record  for  the  race  is  within  one  and 
two-fifth  seconds  of  the  sum  of  the  five  fastest 
quarters  run  in  the  races  won  by  Whirlaway,  Twenty 
Grand,  and  War  Admiral.  The  sum  of  those  five 
fastest  quarters  is  2:00. 

Below  are  the  fractional  times  for  the  four  fastest 
runnings  of  the  Kentucky  Derby  at  one  and  one- 
quarter  miles: 

—74— 


G      . 

I" 

U     O 


St; 

.9  o 


TIME  BY  QUARTERS 

1941  Whirlaway— 

1st         2nd        3rd         4th  (Mile)         5th  Race 

23  2/5  23  1/5  25  25  4/5(1:37  2/9)24         =2:012/5 

1981  Twenty   Grand— 

1st         2nd        3rd         4th  (Mile)         5th  Race 

23  1/5  24  1/5  24  3/5  25  2/5   (1:87  2/5)   24  2/5  =  2:014/5 

1937  War  Admiral— 

1st         2nd        3rd         4th  (Mile)         5th  Race 

23  1/5  23  3/5  25  3/5  25  (1:37  2/6)   25  4/5  =  2:03  1/5 

1914  Old  Rosebud— 

1st         2nd        3rd         4th  (Mile)  5th  Race 

23  3/5  24  1/5  25  1/5  25  4/5   (1:38  4/5)   25  1/5  =  2:03  2/5 

Whirlaway's  Record 

1941— WHIRLAWAY— a  colt.  After  winning 
Derby  in  record  time  of  2:01  2/ J,  won  eight  in  a 
row,  including  Preakness,  and  Belmont  Stakes,  to 
become  fifth  to  win  "Triple  Crown."  Campaigned 
as  4-year-old  in  1942,  he  established  world's  record 
for  earnings  by  a  race  horse.  Retired  to  stud  in 
mid-season  1943   in  perfect  condition. 


Money 

Year 

Age 

Starts 

1st 

2nd 

3rd 

Unp. 

Won 

1940 

2 

16 

7 

2 

4 

3 

$   77,275 

1941 

3 

20 

13 

5 

2 

0 

272,386 

1942 

4 

22 

12 

8 

2 

0 

211,250 

1943 

5 

2 

0 

0 

1 

1 

250 

— 

— 

60 

32 

15 

9 

4 

$561,161 

—76— 


THE  LATE  "GEORGIE"  WOOLF 

Jockey  Woolf  was  the  leading  stake  and 
feature- winning  jockey,  according  to  the 
amount  of  money  won  in  1942.  Amount 
won,  $341,680.  1944  —  Amount  won, 
1338,135. 


Interesting  Stories  of  the 
Kentucky  Derby 

1884 — Pressure  had  to  be  applied  to  Isaac  Murphy, 
the  great  Negro  jockey,  to  get  him  to  ride  Buchanan 
in  the  Derby  of  this  year — which  Buchanan  won. 

Few  horses  were  ever  wilder  at  the  post,  or  more 
erratic  during  the  running  of  a  race,  than  Buchanan. 
From  the  time  he  entered  the  paddock,  until  he  re- 
turned to  the  judge's  stand — and  even  after  that — 
his  actions  were  unpredictable. 

Murphy  had  ridden  Buchanan  at  Nashville.  After 
going  through  rodeo  tactics  at  the  post,  Buchanan 
broke  with  his  field,  then  went  on  a  bolting  ram- 
page. He  was  all  over  the  track,  and  because  of 
this,  Murphy  announced  at  Louisville  that  he  would 
not  ride  Buchanan  in  the  Derby,  as  he  had  promised. 

Messrs.  Cottrill  and  Guest,  owners  of  Buchanan, 
then  sought  out  the  officials  at  the  Downs,  who 
ruled  that  if  Murphy  did  not  ride  Buchanan,  he 
would  not  be  permitted  a  mount  in  the  Derby. 
When  there  was  talk  about  the  possibility  of  Murphy 
being  barred  from  riding  during  the  entire  spring 
meeting,  he  became  worried,  and  told  the  officials 
that    he   had    changed    his    mind,    and    would    ride 

—78— 


JOCKEY  JOHNNY  LONGDON 

Longdon  was  the  leading  stake  and  fea- 
ture-winning jockey,  according  to  the 
amount  of  money  won,  in  1943.  Amount 
won,  $290,222 ;  and  in  1945 — Amount  won. 
$528,220. 


Buchanan. 

After  booting  Buchanan  to  a  two-length  victory 
in  the  Derby,  Murphy  followed  up  a  few  days  later 
by  riding  Buchanan  to  triumph  in  the  Clark  Stakes. 

1891 — Turf  writers  referred  to  the  Derby  of  this 
year  as  the  'Tuneral  Race,"  because  the  time  turned 
in  was  the  slowest  in  Derby  history.  The  frac- 
tional time:  :33%  for  the  first  quarter,  1:05/4  at 
the  half,  1:35^  at  the  three  quarters,  the  mile  in 
2:01,  and  the  full  distance  in  2:52% — as  compared 
with  Spokane's  record  of   2:34%. 

Kingman  was  the  odds-on  favorite;  Balgowan  was 
the  horse  feared  by  Kingman's  owners.  Each  jockey 
had  orders  to  let  the  other  horse  take  the  early  lead. 
Neither  would.  They  travelled  nose  and  nose,  with 
each  jockey  checking  down  in  the  hope  of  tricking 
the  other  into  leadership. 

The  riders  on  the  other  two  horses  kept  step  with 
Kingman  and  Balgowan  for  a  mile,  and  the  quartette 
moved  along  in  cavalry  formation.  Going  into  the 
last  quarter,  Isaac  Murphy  flecked  Kingman  and  he 
moved  to  the  front.  Overton,  on  Balgowan,  started 
to  move,  too.  Kingman  had  taken  a  one-length 
lead,  and  won  by  that  margin.  After  the  race, 
Dudley  Allen,  half  owner  of  Kingman,  said: 

"I  told  my  jockey  to  walk,  if  Balgowan  walked, 
and  he  mighty  near  did  it." 

—80— 


JOCKEY  JOHNNY  ADAMS 

Johnny  Adams  was  the  leading  jockey 
in  number  of  winners  ridden  in  1937,  with 
260;  1942  with  245  winners,  and  1943 
with  228  winners. 


1889 — After  Spokane,  opening  at  10  to  1,  defeated 
Proctor  Knott,  the  1  to  2  favorite,  in  the  Derby, 
the  admirers  said  Spokane  was  a  far  inferior  horse; 
that  his  victory  was  due  to  Proctor  Knott's  bolt  to 
the  outer  fence,  at  the  turn  for  home. 

About  a  week  later,  they  met  again — in  the 
Clark  Stakes — over  the  one  mile  and  a  quarter  route, 
the  Derby  having  been  a  mile  and  a  half.  They  then 
carried  even  weights,  and  the  finish  was  an  exact 
duplicate  of  the  Derby;  Spokane  first.  Proctor  Knott 
second,   and  Once   Again  third. 

Their  third  meeting  was  about  ten  days,  or  two 
weeks  later — in  the  American  Derby.  For  the  third 
time,  Spokane  was  winner,  with  Proctor  Knott  out 
of  the  money. 

In  their  fourth  meeting.  Proctor  Knott  did  defeat 
Spokane. 


Fastest  Derbies — 

Mile  and  a  half.     Spokane   2:3472    (1889);   mile 
and  a  quarter,  Whirlaway,   2:01   2/5    (1941). 


Two  winners  of  the  Derby  later  became  leading 
money  winners.  Zev,  winner  of  the  Churchill 
Downs  classic  in  1923,  later  became  the  leading 
money  winner,  a  distinction  now  held  by  Whirlaway, 
winner   of    the    Kentucky    Derby    in    1941,    whose 

—82— 


JOCKEY  TED  ATKINSON 

Ted  Atkinson  was  the  leading  jockey  in 
number  of  winners  in  1944,  with  a  total  of 
287  winning  mounts. 


earnings  of   $561,161   are  the  greatest  ever  amassed 
by  a  Thoroughbred. 

Exterminator,  winner  of  the  Derby  in  1918,  is 
considered  by  many  to  be  the  greatest  Thoroughbred 
seen  in  America  in  the  present  century.  Extermi- 
nator raced  for  eight  seasons,  won  fifty  races,  was 
seventeen  times  second,  seventeen  times  third,  and 
earned  $2  52,996.  Weight,  distance,  and  condition 
of  the  track  made  little  difference  to  the  horse 
affectionately  called  "Old  Bones."  Exterminator 
died  September  20,   1945. 


Jockey  With  Most  Winners — 

Tied  at  3:  Isaac  Murphy   (Negro)    in  1884,   1890 
and  1891;  Earl  Sande,  1923,  1925  and  1930.     Eddie 
Arcaroin  1938,  1941,  and  1945. 
Jockeys  With  Two  Winners  Each — 

Willie    Sims     (1896,     1898);    Jimmy    Winkfield 
(1901,  1902);  Johnny  Loftus  (1916,  1919);  Albert 
Johnson  (1922,  1926);  Linus  McAtee  (1927,  1929); 
Charlie  Kurtsinger  (1931,  1937). 
Jockeys   Winning  Two  Derbies  In  Row — 

Isaac    Murphy     (1890-1891);    Jimmy   Winkfield 
(1901-1902).     Both  were  Negro  boys. 
Negro  Jockeys  Winning  Derbies — 

O.    Lewis     (1875);    Billy    Walker    (1877);    Babe 
Hurd   (1882);  Isaac  Murphy    (1884,    1890,   1891); 

—84— 


JOCKEY  JOB  DEAN  JESSOP 

Finished  the  year  of  1945  with  290  win- 
ners, to  lead  the  riding  field. 


Erskine  Henderson  (188  5);  Isaac  Lewis  (1887); 
Alonzo  Clayton  (1892);  Willie  Simms  (1896, 
1898);  Jimmy  Winkfield    (1901,   1902). 


Concentrated  Derby 
Details 

The  Winners — 

The  72  runnings  of  the  Kentucky  Derby  (1875- 
1946,  inclusive)  have  been  won  by  64  colts,  seven 
geldings,  and  one  filly. 

The  only  filly  to  win  was  Regret  in  1915. 

The  seven  geldings  which  won  were  Vagrant 
(1876),  Apollo  (1882),  Macbeth  II  (1888),  Old 
Rosebud  (1914),  Exterminator  (1918),  Paul  Jones 
(1920),  and  Clyde  VanDusen   (1929). 

Only  imported  horse  to  win  the  Derby  was  Omar 
Khayyam    (1917). 
Oumer  of  Most  Winners — 

E.    R.    Bradley,    four:    Behave    Yourself     (1921), 
Bubbling  Over  (1926),  Burgoo  King  (1932),  Brok- 
ers Tip  (1933). 
Trainer  of  Most  Winners — 

H.  J.  ("Dick")  Thompson,  4:  (1921,  1926,  1932, 
1933),  all  owned  by  E.  R.  Bradley. 

—86— 


"Triple  Crown^^  Winners 

In   this   country   only  seven   three-year-olds 

have   won   the    "Triple  Crown"    since    1875, 

seventy-one    years    ago,  when    the    Kentucky 
Derby  was  established. 

Following  are  the  "Triple  Crown"  winners 
in  this  country: 


UNITED  STATES 

Kentucky  Derby,  Preakness  Stakes,  Belmont 
Stakes 

Year  Horse  Owner 

1919 Sir  Barton   ...    J.  K.  L.  Ross 

1930 Gallant  Fox William  Woodward 

1935 Omaha    William  Woodward 

1937 War  Admiral  .  .  Samuel  D.  Riddle 

1941 Whirlaway   Warren  Wright 

1943 Count  Fleet   .  .  .  Mrs.  John  Hertz 

1946 Assault    Robert  J.  Kleberg 


—87— 


—88*- 


